


You're Lovely to Me

by fortuitousauthor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Harry has panic attacks, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Work In Progress, maybe smut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 05:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7672264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortuitousauthor/pseuds/fortuitousauthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thinking did Harry no good. In fact, it usually worsened his mood, but there was nothing else he could do but think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Lovely to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this bit a month or so ago, and it's my first fic on AO3. Hope you enjoy!

Harry could feel the sweat run from his hairline to the nape of his neck then down his back. He had taken up exercise much more frequently than in his school days- partly because Voldemort wasn't after him anymore and partly because he had nothing to do. After a few days of auror training in the first year after the war, he quit. After his first “experience” he didn't want to risk going back. 

He felt like he was choking, and his hands shook and grasped tightly at his hair while he struggled to reign in his panic. Ron was across the desk and took a few seconds to notice, but once he did, he began asking what was wrong, but Harry didn't know, and everything was coming crashing down, how could he be safe, there was always someone around the next corner, Voldemort was never going to be the end of it, and he would always be manipulated because of his stupid status because of his scar, his personal obliteration penned in on his forehead. How could he think he could ever handle being an Auror? He was paranoid, a liability, and- and… there was no impending doom. He killed- he _killed_ Voldemort, and what if he hurt someone else? What if, because he was useless in Wizarding society now, he found his purpose in, instead of vanquishing dark lords, becoming one? He had been a horcrux for so long, what if he couldn't find a way to be anyone else, be _something_ else? He had been the master of Death, what if- And suddenly he felt it thrumming through his veins, the temptation of being who Dumbledore had urged him not to be, of being who- what he hated. 

 

At this point, Ron couldn't retrieve him from his mind alone, so he patronus-called Hermione and after she arrived via floo, they worked to calm him down, to assure him, “No, Harry, you're okay, nothing’s coming for you, you're safe, we've got you,” but Harry couldn't hear them from behind the veil in his mind, the veil so similar to the one he had lost so many people to, that he had nearly fallen behind himself- no, he had actually _died_ , he had died, and what if he should have stayed dead? 

What if he should be dead? 

At least, an “experience” is what Hermione and Ron insisted on calling it. Luna called it some obscure creature, maybe a wrackspurt of sorts, and George reckoned he just needed some time to himself. He had plenty of time to himself: the problem was that he didn't know what to do with it. Contacting other people was out of the question (they would want to talk), and being in public, or even outside, was maddening because of the sheer number of people who wanted something from him. Everyone wanted something, and Harry couldn't take it. 

_You'd guess_ , Harry thought to himself bitterly, _that after a lifetime devoted to defeating the Dark Lord, people would get the message and leave a bloke alone_.  


This sort of thinking did Harry no good. In fact, it usually worsened his mood, but there was nothing else he could do but think and exercise. He often couldn't for more than a few minutes at a time because he became tired and sweat much easier now. He used to be able to run for what seemed like forever, but Hermione said that was off of adrenaline. Sometimes he missed the adrenaline boost. Then he told himself that he was crazy to want Voldemort back, but he didn't really. He just wanted something to do. But not talking. Or people. Or work. So, he exercised alone. He thought he was utterly pathetic, and Hermione wasn't really great at pep talks, most days. She often took on a Mrs. Weasley-ish tone, which frightened both Harry and Ron to no end. Ginny was always busy with Quidditch business, now that she had decided to go pro. Who was left? It felt like no one was. The papers still managed to make Harry buying tea front page news, and the whole ordeal was exhausting. 

Harry wanted an out. A solution.

He didn’t like where this was going.

He had a tendency to exhaust his head while he was working out his body, and he was glad he didn't start to cry today. He padded over from his bedroom to the bathroom to take a quick shower. He remembered a comment from Ron from the last time they went out to get some drinks, which, really, had been far too long ago. 

 

_“Harry, it's as simple as this,”_ he said, then took a sip of some beer that was probably room temperature at that point. _“You either need a mind healer or a girlfriend.”_ He made a face, and whether he was reacting to the beer or Harry’s love life, Harry couldn't be sure.  
_“And preferably not my sister anymore, thank you very much.”_ Harry had laughed and said _“No, I am definitely_ not _interested in her, but if Gin asks, I will tell her...”_ He had knelt down on the grimy and slightly sticky floor and gave his best pining face.  
_“I think of you every day, Ginevra, of your beautiful face, and your large… er,”_ he paused. _“Personality?”_ At this, Ron had promptly hit him over the head, then grasped Harry’s hand to help him up. _"A joke! Just a joke."_ _“Just do it when mum’s out of the room; she'll have a fit.”_

Harry scratched his head, further messing up his hair, and stepped into the shower with two resounding thunks.  
After shutting the shower off and rubbing a towel over his already unruly hair, he pulled a clean t-shirt and some pyjama bottoms on before flopping in bed.  
The next day was more of the same, and as days stretched into weeks, Harry knew Hermione was bound to push back against his standstill of a life. When she finally did, she was in her navy ministry uniform looking windswept and exhausted, but she seemed pleased to see him all the same. As she made her way to the living room, Harry thought he could see her wince slightly at the pile of clothes on one side of the couch and hastened to push them out of view to no avail. She politely asked what he'd been up to. 

“Exercising and jacking off. The usual,” he replied, and her face pinched and bloomed with a small flush. 

“Setting that aside,” she continued, “Do you think you're ready to go outside?” 

“Sure,” He said, not one to disappoint a worried Hermione. 

“I really mean it Harry, if you're not ready to get out and see people, to stop-” 

“Doing nothing and jacking off?” 

“Yes, that-” 

“I can't imagine you and Ron haven't done _anything_ like-” 

“Harry.” 

“Okay, no questions asked.” 

“Thank you. My point is, are you ready? To go outside?” 

“Er, I think so.” 

“You _think_ so?” 

“Well, yeah, I think-” 

She stopped and looked at him seriously, putting her “stubborn face” on. Harry just looked at her with his only face: the “Harry” face. 

“Harry, that's not good enough.” 

“Then, yeah, I'm ready, let's go.” 

“Right now?” 

“Yes. Sure. Er, yeah.”

"I'm glad to see your vocabulary has improved." 

“Well, one can only jack off so many times in a-” 

“ _Okay_.” 

“Okay.” 

“So?” she asked. 

“So what?” 

She gave a slightly weary sigh. “Where do you want to go, Harry?” 

“Oh. Oh. Er…” The truth was, he had not planned for anything more than quietly and nicely sending her away, perhaps after receiving food. 

“You don't know.” 

“Er, no, I don’t.” 

She gave a weary sigh and drummed her fingers on the table and sat down. Her eyes gazed across the room until they came to rest upon a picture of Ron, Hermione, and himself before their sixth year. Hagrid had offered to take their picture to add to his collection, back when he still collected photographs. They looked happy. He looked happy. He knew better though, than to judge a person's mental state by their photograph. He thought briefly of a young Colin Creevey before Hermione picked its frame up and held it in her elegant hands. Harry hasn't noticed before, but her once slightly knobbly, rounded fingers were more long and slender: they were perfect for writing. He felt a sudden rush of affection for Hermione and Ron, and wished he had witnessed their little changes himself, instead of feeling this crushing realization that he had not been there where he should have been, and that it was too late for him. 

She inhaled deeply, and seemed to be lost in thought, so Harry sat until she cleared her throat and looked up with misty eyes. 

“How long has it been since you visited Molly and George? And Arthur?” 

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out; there were just no words. 

“That's what I thought. Let's go see them.” 

She stood and offered her arm, as if they were about to dance. 

“Are you sure Molly won't-” 

“She always makes extra food, Harry. For you.” 

“And Fred,” she added in a small voice. 

“We all miss you Harry. Especially Ron and I. I think George needs you too. You know you always were-” she sniffled, and Harry’s heart broke a little more. “Close, a-and, Percy can only do so much, they're so- so di-different, and I...” She gave a small, desperate sob and tried to keep her head above her shoulders. Harry embraced her and blinked back his own tears as he shoved his face in her beautifully puffy hair, wanting to hide his shame and guilt from the world.  
“I think…” he paused. He didn’t want to screw up his already screwed-up life any more.  
“I think it's time for me to come home, Hermione.” 


End file.
